It's All Paperwork
by Halcris
Summary: Cowley's behaviour causes concern to both Doyle and Bodie. His obsession leads two of them into danger.


It's All Paperwork."

As Bodie and Doyle parked their cars and entered C.I.5 Headquarters, the doorman relayed to them the message that Cowley wanted them to report direct to his office. It sounded urgent, so they put a spurt on, hurried up the stairs, tapped on the door, and were called in. Their boss was sitting at his desk, studying some papers, and came straight to the point.

"Ernst Zoolner," he said briskly.

"Ah, yes," responded Doyle, "One of those. !"

"What do you mean, Doyle ?," snapped Cowley, surprised by the words. Doyle hurried to explain.

"I mean, sir," he replied quickly, "that he's one of those very nasty villains that we know are into every evil practice, but because they are so clever at covering their tracks, it's very difficult to actually pin anything on them."

As he completely agreed with that, his boss's only response was a grunt and a nod.

Bodie stepped in quickly. "Do you suppose that's his real name ?," he queried. "It's a bit odd."

"Probably not," agreed Cowley. "But his registered place of birth is Argentina, so it could be genuine. He's got all the right documents in that name."

"Has something new come up about him ?," asked Doyle, wondering why Cowley had raised the subject.

"Possibly," their boss responded. "I've been given some information. It may be, that like the Americans with Al Capone, we get him on various financial misdemeanours."

"Not his worst crime, surely !," protested Doyle.

"No, indeed," Cowley concurred. "But it would be a start, and might lead to better things."

He produced a paper with a long list of names, and issued his orders for their task for the day. "I want you to go to Company House, and run checks on all these firms. Find out who is behind them, and who their principal directors are. Especially check who they employ as treasurers and auditors."

Bodie and Doyle let nothing show in their expressions. But inwardly both were pulling faces at the thought of hours of paperwork ahead. However, it didn't do to question Cowley's orders, so they took the paper, and hurried off to get on with the task. So they soon found themselves ensconced at a desk in the large building that housed the information they had been told to find. Their I.D cards and a preliminary phone call from Cowley had ensured that they would get the fullest co-operation, and whatever assistance they required.

"What are we looking for ?," asked Bodie, as he settled in his seat, while they waited for the first files to be brought to them by the efficient-looking young clerk who had been assigned to help them.

"I'm not sure," replied Doyle. "I suggest we start by listing all the names of the directors of these companies, and see if any significant name turns up."

They spent a long and rather tedious day, looking at file after file, and making copious lists of directors, treasurers and auditors. As most of the companies had foreign bases, the names were often strange, and had to be carefully watched for correct spelling. It was late afternoon before they reached the last of the companies on the list Cowley had given them, and their own lists now ran into many pages.

"What now ?," said Bodie, who being very much an 'action man', hated this kind of job.

"Well, I guess we study our lists," suggested Doyle, "and look out for names that keep appearing. Use a 'high-lighter'." He pushed a bright yellow one across the desk to his mate. He knew how bored Bodie must be, but this was a job that had to be done. They'd hardly got very far before they had to leave, as Company House was closing for the day. So they returned all the files, and carted their long lists off to Bodie's flat to continue the work.

To Doyle's relief, being in his own place much improved Bodie's mood, and he got on with the job quite enthusiastically, fortifying them both with coffee and biscuits from his store cupboard. Soon their long lists were speckled with bright coloured marks – pink, green and yellow. Quite a few names began to appear regularly, and they compared notes.

"I'm seeing 'Mendoza' a lot," said Doyle. "Is it showing on your list ?."

"Yes," replied Bodie, and did a quick count. "Seven times," he reported. Then he continued, "I'm getting 'Hernandez' quite often. What about you ?"

Doyle did a quick check. "Just three on my list," he said. "Try 'Navarro'."

Bodie looked down his list, "Yeah, ten of those," he replied.

They continued this backwards and forwards game for quite a while, checking all the different names which seemed to recur in varying numbers.

"How about 'Lorenzo' ?," asked Bodie. "I've got a lot of those."

"Yes," responded Doyle, "There's quite a few of those on my list too."

Then suddenly, he let out a yell, which startled his mate. "That's it, Bodie !," he exclaimed. "Don't you see ?."

"What ?," said Bodie, extremely puzzled by his mate's outburst.

"'Lorenzo'," said Doyle. "It's an anagram of 'Zoolner' !."

Bodie was astounded. "Well spotted, Ray," he said.

"Where's Cowley's list ?," asked Doyle eagerly, and they fished through the reams of paper to find it. "Now if we just mark the companies where the name 'Lorenzo' crops up, we've something to take to Cowley."

They rang into base to find if Cowley was still there, and found he'd gone home. But they considered it sufficiently important to merit ringing him there. Doyle quickly explained what they had found. Cowley was pleased, and even managed a word of praise.

"Well done," he said. "Bring all the lists into the office in the morning, and we'll go further into what these companies do."

The pair felt justifiably pleased with what they had achieved, and celebrated by sending out for a lavish take-away meal.

Early next morning saw them knocking on Cowley's office door. They entered as instructed, clutching their colour-marked lists. Cowley reached out an eager hand for these, and scanned them rapidly.

"We'll start by picking out all those where the name 'Lorenzo' appears," he said briskly.

This was an encouraging move, as it decimated their lists, which had held hundreds of names, very considerably. They ended up with a much-reduced list of only twenty-four companies.

"Now let's see what these companies actually do," said Cowley eagerly.

Armed with this now manageable list, the trio went off to the Computer room, and spent a profitable morning finding out about the companies. They found that most of them were import/export companies, and the addresses registered for them turned out to be warehouses and storage depots in various ports all round the country, in London, Liverpool, Bristol and other smaller places.

"Import/export outlets can be a cover for all sorts of activities," said Bodie gloomily. "Will we have to check them all ?."

"No," replied Cowley. "I'll get the local police onto discreet looks at them. They can come back to us if they find anything a bit dubious."

"What about this address in Exeter – 124 Balfour Street. Several companies give it, and it's not clear what they do there," asked Doyle

Cowley turned to the computer operator, giving her the address and asking for information on it. The answer came back a few minutes later.

"It's a 3-storey building in a row of similar ones in busy shopping street," she said. "The bottom 2 floors house a bank, not a main one, and its offices, and the top floor is a firm of financial consultants."

"Interesting," commented Cowley. "If Zoolner's up to dodgy dealings with money, it sounds a good set-up. I think we may have to have a closer look at that."

"Banks are notoriously reluctant to impart any information about their customers," said Doyle.

"Aye," Cowley agreed. "So before I do any more about it, I'll go higher, and get permission and authority to demand a few answers. Leave it with me for now."

Thus dismissed, Bodie and Doyle left, and made their way to the duty-room, hoping to snatch a quick coffee before they got on with any other tasks awaiting them. They found their friend Murphy there, busy brewing up some fresh coffee.

Doyle sank into chair to wait for his. He was looking rather thoughtful. "I'm a bit bothered about the 'old man'," he said.

"Oh, why ?," asked Bodie.

"Well," continued Doyle, "He seems almost obsessed about these enquiries into Zoolner's activities. And he wants to be personally involved. He's not delegating as he usually does."

"I think I can throw some light on that," said Murphy, as he brought three steaming cups to the table. "But you won't let on I told you, will you ?" The duo shook their heads, and he continued. "Cowley has always held Zoolner responsible for the deaths of his two best friends. One was about three years ago, and it was nasty. The other man was injured at the same time, and has been in a wheel-chair ever since. He died last week."

"I see," said Doyle, "That explains a lot. No wonder he's eager for some results. I wouldn't be surprised if he isn't busy right now, organizing a trip to Exeter, - and including himself."

He couldn't have been more correct ! With his secretary's assistance, Cowley was busy, making phone calls, re-arranging meetings, and cancelling appointments. All to give him the free time he wanted.

The following afternoon, Bodie handed in to Cowley's secretary a report he and Doyle had compiled on a stake-out they'd spent the day on. He was delaying, turning on the charm, and chatting to her, when suddenly Cowley appeared in his office doorway.

"Bodie," he said, "Glad I caught you. I want you and Doyle here at 8.30 am tomorrow, with bags packed for a possible few days stay. We're having a trip to Exeter."

His boss's first words had given Bodie a bit of a start.! He thought for just a moment that he was being chided for chatting up the secretary, but he quickly realised Cowley's mind was on other things. He hurried off to find Doyle, to let him know about this latest development So his mate had been right. Cowley's mind was set on finding something to incriminate Zoolner. And to having personal involvement in it too.

Still, a trip away from London might be interesting.

He knew exactly where to look for his partner, for they were both booked for a martial arts session in the gym, where some of the senior agents helped in practice bouts with the newest recruits. Bodie rather enjoyed these work-outs, as very often it involved the newer girls, who tended to be impressed by his skill.

He was secretly pleased when he saw Doyle neatly brought down by a slim, supple girl, who, being tall, had a slight advantage. But he knew really, that his mate, like all of the more experienced men, wasn't using his ability to the full. You had to give the newcomers a bit of encouragement; - it was good for boosting their confidence.

Then it was his turn. His opponent was a small Japanese girl, who he'd heard was a 'whizz' on the computers. Naturally, he had a great advantage in size and weight, so he was ready to go a little easy with her.

She squared up to him, a look of grim determination on her delicate face, and they began their encounter. Bodie was amused at first, as he easily parried her efforts, then realised that although small, she was pretty good, being very agile and extremely quick. He began to enjoy the bout, just exerting himself sufficiently to counter her moves, without pitting his full strength and weight advantage.

Then the silly freak accident happened. They had got rather near the edge of the mat, and one of her neat little bare feet kicked up the corner of it. Bodie caught his own foot in it, and was thrown off balance. Both began to fall. Bodie reacted instinctively, knowing that if he fell on top of her, with his full weight, he might seriously injure her. As a result, he didn't fall as expertly as he should have done with all his training, and went down rather heavily.

The little Japanese girl was quickly on her feet, and offering a hand to help her opponent up. But as Bodie accepted it and rose, he let out an involuntary yelp, and clutched at his knee. The trainer on duty was instantly beside them, and helped Bodie to a seat at the side of the hall. He gently felt the injured knee, and called for an ice-pack.

The little Japanese girl was hovering anxiously. "So sorry," she kept saying, looking very upset.

"Don't worry," said Bodie, re-assuringly, "It wasn't your fault – it was just an accident."

Doyle hadn't witnessed the event, as he'd been at the other end of the gym, dealing gently, but firmly, with a young man, who though very eager and keen, was still far too slow on his feet. He only learned what had happened when he went back to his seat to retrieve his towel. He was instantly all concern for his mate's discomfort.

"No need to fuss, Ray," said Bodie cheerfully. "It's not that bad. It's easing off already," he added, indicating the ice-pack he was pressing to his knee.

Doyle took him at his word, collected his things, and went off to take a shower. Not at all worried, he returned to his flat to complete his packing, ready for the morning and the trip away from their usual London haunts.

When he presented himself, complete with bag, at Cowley's office, just before 8.30 the following morning, he fully expected his partner to join him at any moment. Cowley was in the office, carefully selecting papers to put in his brief-case. His bag was near the door and Doyle put his down beside it.

So Cowley's first words were a complete surprise. "Bodie won't be with us," said Cowley brusquely, volunteering no reason. But Doyle had to know.

"His knee ?," he queried, and Cowley nodded.

"I didn't think it was that bad," said Doyle. "He said it was getting better when I left him at the gym."

"Apparently the trainer isn't satisfied, and wants further investigation and treatment," said Cowley.

"Poor Bodie," said Doyle, with a smile, "Floored by a girl half his size."

Cowley's grunt and fierce scowl indicated that he didn't find it particularly amusing, and Doyle subsided.

There was a tap at the door. Doyle moved quickly to open it, to reveal Wilson, Cowley's regular driver.

"We're going by train," announced Cowley, snapping shut his brief-case, and led the way from the room. Wilson picked up the two bags, and he and Doyle followed their boss's quick stride.

Wilson drove to Paddington, parked the car, and stayed till he saw the two men onto the 9.57 train to Exeter. Doyle helped him stack the bags onto the luggage rack, and then he departed.

Cowley chose the seat by the window, facing forward. Doyle slid into the seat opposite. He didn't mind having his back to the engine. He travelled by train so rarely, that he hadn't formed a preference.

Cowley put his brief-case onto the table between them. He spent most of the journey reading and re-reading the papers he had put into it, occasionally handing one to Doyle to look at. He didn't seem in the mood for conversation, so Doyle contented himself with looking at the scenery, and wondering how Bodie was getting on. He was going to miss his company. He did make himself useful by fetching coffee and some rather dubious sandwiches from the buffet-car.

In due course, they arrived at St. David's, Exeter. Doyle grabbed the two bags from the rack, and followed his boss, glad to be able to stretch his legs again, after a rather tedious journey. It didn't take them long to find the small hotel that Cowley's secretary had managed to book them into. To Doyle's surprise Cowley let him have the room to the front. He then spoiled his apparent generosity by explaining why.

If there's any passing traffic noise, you'll cope with it better than me," he said. "I'm a very light sleeper."

Doyle didn't mind. Long practice from his police days had accustomed him to be able to sleep anywhere, under any conditions, and to wake quickly when necessary. He took his bag into the very pleasant room, and went to look out of the window. It seemed a quiet enough street.

Cowley had taken his bag into his selected room, but was back again to issue his orders.

"We don't need a car, as Balfour Street is just round the corner from here. It's too late to visit the bank today, but you can take an apparently casual stroll along that way this afternoon. Locate the exact site of the building for us. And see if the offices above have many visitors. I'm going to talk to the manager or anyone else who's about, for a little local colour."

Cowley's secretary had been very clever in her choice of the small hotel she had booked them into. Less than a minute's walk brought Doyle to the corner, and the turn into Balfour Street. He strolled in leisurely fashion along the street, looking in the very varied shop windows. A display of antique clocks in a jeweller's caught his attention, and he spent a few minutes enjoying it. Moving on, he quickly located the bank they were interested in, and the offices above, quite ordinary places in the parade of shops.

As he hadn't had any lunch, Doyle crossed the road to a very pleasant –looking café, and ordered himself a coffee and a salad roll. The weather was still good enough for there to be seating outside, so he took his purchase to one of the small tables there. He could quite safely sit there, watching the comings and goings opposite, without arousing any suspicion.

The bank did have a slow but steady stream of customers, but he didn't see anyone go to the separate door bearing the name-plate of the financial advisers, two storeys above.

He walked further along, noticing the usual assortment of shops, a baker's, a drapery store, and a small super-market. Having, with his usual observational skills, got a good idea of the area, he strolled back to the hotel, and reported his meagre findings to Cowley.

Later, he joined his boss and the other dozen or so guests in the busy dining-room, and enjoyed a very acceptable, if not fancy, evening meal. Cowley had one Scotch with his coffee after the meal. He then told Doyle he was going to his room to finalize his plans for the visit to the bank in the morning.

Doyle, left to his own devices, would have been pretty bored if he hadn't found the games room. In there, he discovered a rather shy teenage boy, who responded eagerly when he suggested they should play a few frames. He found that the lad was a very good player. Several other men came in during the evening, and he and the boy took on some of them, earning a few beers in the process. Since the boy didn't drink, Doyle did quite well out of that, but he was careful not to overdo it. Cowley would not be pleased if he turned up in the morning with a hangover !

Doyle was halfway through a very satisfactory breakfast before his boss joined him. Cowley looked dour and heavy-eyed as if he had not slept well. He ordered only tea and toast

"Not having the porridge, then?," ventured Doyle humorously.

"Not the way you Sassenachs make it !," retorted Cowley.

Cowley was not in a good mood ! Doyle quickly decided that humour was out today and he would have to tread carefully.

10 o'clock found them walking briskly along the road in the direction of the bank. Cowley had his briefcase with all the details of the various companies bearing the name 'Lorenzo' who banked here. Cowley asked to see the manager, and they were conducted into his office. As soon as he heard who he was dealing with, and had been shown the higher authority that Cowley had obtained, the dapper little man was falling over himself to be helpful. He answered all Cowley's questions readily, and quite willingly produced details of accounts – details which banks normally are reluctant to reveal.

"You get a great deal of money deposited here by these companies under the name 'Lorenzo'," said Cowley. "Why do they come here when some of them are much nearer London ?."

"I wondered that," said the little man, "but I was told that there are two reasons. One is that the owner of the companies has a house in the area where he stays regularly. And the other is that they find London banks so big and busy that transactions often take quite a while to complete. As they are by far our largest customers, any work they want done is a priority for us, and is dealt with quickly."

That did make some sort of sense, thought Cowley to himself. "And do they do a lot of transactions ?," he asked.

"Oh, yes," replied the manager, eager to be forthcoming. "Large sums come in regularly, and then Mr. Petrie, from the firm upstairs comes down and draws on these."

"What for ?," asked Cowley.

"I don't know," said the man, looking a bit taken aback. How was he supposed to know ? "To pay suppliers maybe, or directors salaries. He draws cash, not cheques."

"Large sums ?," queried Cowley.

"Oh, yes," the manager replied. "Almost the whole sum of the deposit goes out again, but as they come in regularly, they are never overdrawn."

"I think I'll have to have a word with Mr. Petrie," said Cowley.

He thanked the man for the help he had given so far, and led Doyle outside, moving to the adjacent door. A large brass plate on the wall next to it proclaimed the names - Petrie, Wilson and Ford. – Financial Consultants.

Doyle pressed the door-bell, - no response. He tried again, but still got no answer. Cowley looked very displeased.

"It is lunchtime, sir," said Doyle placatingly. "There's a very nice little café over there, with tables outside. We could get a bite to eat and watch out for Mr. Petrie's return."

They did this, but an hour passed without any sign of activity at the office door opposite.

"Mr. Petrie seems elusive," commented Doyle, "and what about his partners ? There's no sign of any of them."

"If the place is empty, maybe we could pay a quick unauthorised visit," said Cowley suddenly. "Have you got your keys ?."

Doyle was a bit surprised at his boss for suggesting such an illegal act, but decided he'd better follow orders. The pair crossed the road and strolled back, stopping beside the door. Cowley produced a street-map from his brief-case and pretended to be studying it as cover for Doyle. A quick jiggle with his special keys, and a credit card, and Doyle had the door open. The pair slipped inside, and closed the door behind them.

There wasn't a sound from above, as they cautiously climbed the two flights of stairs. They came to an office door. Doyle slowly pushed it open, and they went in.

What they found was something of a revelation !

Here was no fancy business premises, as suggested by the elaborate nameplate displayed below. Instead they found an almost empty room, with bare floorboards. There was a small desk and chair in one corner. In the other was a camp-bed, with untidy bed-covers. An open door led to a small kitchen area with a stove, a 'fridge' and a sink. Articles on the draining-board, and the milk etc. in the fridge suggested that there had been someone there earlier.

"Well," said Doyle, "I think we can assume that the 'financial consultants' are a myth. A cover-up for what, I wonder.?"

But just then his alert ears picked up a sound from below. "Sounds as if someone's coming back," he whispered, and followed his boss into the kitchen, the door giving them cover as they waited.

Footsteps clattered up the stairs. Whoever it was, he had no suspicion that he had visitors. A man entered. He put a newspaper down on the desk, and then turned towards the kitchen, carrying a bottle of milk and a bag of groceries.

His shock when two men stepped out to meet him, was tremendous, but he reacted fast. He dropped everything and bolted for the stairs.

But Doyle re-acted just as quickly, and the man had barely reached the first landing before he was pounced on and quickly overcome. Doyle dragged him to his feet, propelled him back up the stairs, and plonked him down in the chair by the desk. Then he had a good look at him.

"I know you," he exclaimed. "Ted….. ?"

The man recognized his captor too. He had started to protest as if he were an innocent man, but realised now that the game was well and truly up. He sank back in his seat.

"Dawson," he said. "Ted Dawson, as you well know, Mr. Doyle."

"Well, I never," said Doyle. "What on earth are you up to here ?."

Then he turned to his boss to explain. "Ted Dawson and his brother, Bill," he began, "were a nasty pair of con-men. Ted played the suave bogus official who kept un-suspecting old ladies talking on their doorstep, while Bill sneaked in by the back door, and made off with anything he could find."

"A nice pair," commented Cowley, thinking once again how often Doyle's good memory for people he had come across in his police days had been of real use to him.

"They both did time," continued Doyle. "Bill's still in London. He works some days in a 'bookies', but we suspect he also works for Zoolner. We had no idea what Ted was up to though. He wasn't about any more."

"Perhaps we'd better find out," said Cowley. "I'm quite sure he's going to tell us, aren't you Ted ?."

His words were gentle enough, but there was menace in the tone and attitude he'd adopted. It wasn't really necessary, for Ted Dawson knew that Doyle was now C.I 5, and he knew very well just how powerful that organization was. So he wisely decided that his best bet was to come clean, and tell all he knew.

"Yes, I work for Zoolner, too," he admitted. "It's a cushy job, really. I get to live here, and get paid expenses. All I do is wait for a phone call. Then every so often, I collect money from the bank downstairs, take it over to Guernsey, and put it into a bank account over there."

"In the name of Zoolmer, no doubt," said Doyle.

"Oh no," replied Dawson. "It's a lady's account- a Mrs. Rosslyn."

Cowley and Doyle exchanged puzzled looks. This was an unexpected development.

"Yes," continued Dawson. "She's well-known on Guernsey- a very wealthy lady. She has a great big house in the best area, and runs a very posh casino."

Then Doyle had an idea. "You must have a paying-in book," he said. "Show me."

Dawson took a key from his pocket, and unlocked a drawer in the desk. He fished among some papers, and handed the book to Doyle.

"I thought so," he said, as he scanned it, and showed it to his boss. "It's his careless speech. The name is spelt Rozolen."

"So," queried Cowley, not so quick on the uptake.

"It's Zoolner trying to be clever again," continued Doyle. "It's another anagram. Zoolner, Lorenzo, Rosolen. I wonder which, if any, is his real name ?."

Cowley took the book from Doyle and studied it. Although he said nothing, he was very impressed by his man's cleverness in spotting this. He spoke thoughtfully. "So it looks as if the money from his companies under the name 'Lorenzo' goes straight out to Guernsey, to run the casino. And I bet it isn't declared anywhere, and doesn't pay tax."

His expression brightened and he looked positively elated. "I really think we've got him this time," he exclaimed.

Doyle posed a question. "What are we going to do about him ?," he asked indicating Dawson.

"You could let me go," said Dawson in a wheedling tone. "I'd just disappear somewhere – abroad, maybe."

"No," said Cowley firmly. "We'll need you when we bring a case against Zoolner."

"I can't 'grass' on Zoolner !," gasped Dawson, looking shocked. "He'll kill me !"

Cowley was looking thoughtful. "We'll need to keep you 'under wraps' somewhere till we need you," he said.

He pulled out the street map, and consulted it. "Yes," he said, "The police station is at the far end of this street. We'll go there and fix up something on a temporary basis."

Cowley put the paying-in book and the other papers from the desk into his brief-case, and then the trio left, turning down the road.

They hadn't got very far when they were held up. Two young mothers, with babies in 'buggies', and toddlers too, were standing outside the small supermarket, gossiping happily, blissfully unaware that they were blocking the pavement.

Cowley moved to go past on the outside, while Dawson with Doyle close behind him, went to the inside.

Suddenly Dawson saw a chance and seized it !

Picking up one of the toddlers, he swung round and literally threw him at Doyle. Naturally, he re-acted instinctively to catch the child, but the impetus pushed him backwards into the shop doorway. A pile of stacked wire baskets caught the back of his legs, and he and the child tumbled to the ground.

Dawson fled down the street. Cowley took a few strides after him, and then gave up. With his bad leg he'd never catch the much younger man, who probably knew all the back streets and alleyways anyway.

He returned to help Doyle, who having scrambled to his feet, was struggling to placate two agitated mothers, trying to deal with screaming, frightened children.

Cowley's authoritative manner helped to restore calm. Checking that the child was not hurt, only frightened, he apologised for the upset, assuring them that it was just an accident.

"Sorry, sir," said Doyle, as they turned to walk back.

"Not your fault," said Cowley, "But it means that we'll have to move fast before Zoolner realises that we're onto him."

"I don't think Dawson will tell him," said Doyle. "He's too scared about his own safety."

"That might give us a little time," his boss agreed.

They returned to the hotel. As there was still some time before the evening meal, Doyle indulged himself in a nice hot bath, hoping to diminish the bruises he could feel coming on – nothing serious, he'd had much worse, but in trying to safeguard the child, he'd not fallen well and those wire baskets were very unforgiving.

Cowley had retired to his room too, saying he was going to write up some notes on the day's events.

Relaxed and comfortable now, Doyle lay on his bed, and thought over all that had happened. It was a pity that he'd lost Dawson, but he didn't think the scared man would dare to alert his employer. He was too frightened of him. With a bit of luck, Zoolner would not realise that anything was wrong, until he tried to phone his instructions about the next withdrawal to 'Mr. Petrie', and got no answer to his call.

Surely, Cowley's next step would be to take all they had learned back to London, to hand it over to the tax fraud investigators. It was clear that Zoolner was sending large sums of money out of the country, money which hadn't been declared for tax.

They would probably be going back to London tomorrow, he thought. Funny, but although what he had seen of Exeter was very pleasant, he was actually missing London's grey streets. And he was missing Bodie, too, surprisingly. I hope his knee is better, and we'll be back together on the next job, he mused contentedly.

When he went down to dinner, he found that his boss had asked for his meal to be sent up to his room. He looked like dining alone. However the parents of the boy he had played snooker with, invited him to join them, and he spent a pleasant evening with them, playing cards and just chatting. Naturally, he didn't tell them what he was doing there. He just said he was on a short break. They'd thought that perhaps Cowley was his uncle, but he soon disabused them of that, though it secretly amused him.

He slept well, and went down to breakfast in very light-hearted mood. To be ready he'd taken a few minutes to put the few things he'd brought, back into his bag.

Cowley had beaten him to it this morning, and had almost finished his breakfast. He waited till Doyle had put in his order. Then he drank the last of his coffee and stood up.

"Be ready at 9.30, Doyle," he ordered. "A car is picking us up."

"For the station, sir ?," asked Doyle confidently.

"No," replied Cowley, looking blank at the suggestion. "I've chartered a helicopter. We're going to Guernsey."

He strode off leaving Doyle feeling absolutely stunned. What had got into Cowley ? He seemed to have become obsessed. Thoughts raced through his head. Oh, how he wished Bodie was here to talk to. Their boss appeared to have gone completely 'over the top'.

At home, Cowley was always complaining about the difficulty of keeping costs down, and yet he'd done this !

Hiring a helicopter must be expensive, Doyle knew. Was his boss so obsessed that he was using his own money ?

Nevertheless, he was ready at 9.30, and followed Cowley out to the car with its driver waiting for them.

As they drove off, he ventured a protest. "Do we really need to do this, sir ?," he asked. "Haven't we got enough already to take back to the fraud people ?."

"I started this," replied Cowley in a determined tone, "and I intend to see it right through." Doyle heard the grim tone in his boss's voice, and realised it would be useless to argue further. After all, Cowley was his boss, and he was contracted to follow his orders. He would just have to play along as best he could.

The driver took them out to a small private airfield. Several small planes were parked on the perimeter, owned, no doubt, by wealthy business men. They walked across to the helicopter, standing in one corner. A pleasant young man turned to greet them.

"Hi," he said, "I'm Dave, your pilot for the day. If you'd like to get aboard, gentlemen."

He ushered them into their seats and went through all the necessary safety checks. Then he expertly lifted off, and they were on their way. It was a smooth, pleasant trip that took them to a similar small airfield, just outside St. Peter Port. Cowley arranged transport, which took them straight to the main police station in the town.

Cowley had researched information by phone the previous evening, so he was very satisfied to find that the man in charge, Chief Inspector Brouard, was indeed the John Brouard he had met and trained with many years ago. The two men disappeared into the office, leaving Doyle outside, feeling rather like an unwanted spare part, and gaining odd looks from various officers passing in pursuit of their duties.

After a while the two men emerged still talking animatedly. Cowley signed to Doyle to follow, and they went down to the main entrance, where a car with a driver was waiting for them. Cowley had evidently enlisted the officer's assistance, for they went directly to the bank that Dawson had named, and were ushered straight into the manager's office.

Backed by a senior policeman adding to his authority, Cowley was given immediate access to the Rosolen account, and made copious notes. As he finished, he reached into his brief-case, and produced a photograph which he showed to the manager.

"Do you know this man ?," he asked

"Oh, yes," replied the man. "That's Mr. Rosolen. We see him occasionally."

Doyle had glimpsed the photo as Cowley had handed it over. It was Zoolner, of course.

Very satisfied with what he had learned, Cowley thanked the man, and they left. They were driven back to the police headquarters. Brouard insisted that he would give them lunch. It was only in the police canteen, but because of his position they were given a quiet secluded table, and special attention, so all three enjoyed a satisfying meal.

The two older men sat for a long time over their coffee, talking over the times when they had known each other. There was a lot of "Do you remember…?" and "What became of…?"

Doyle was left feeling more and more extraneous. Still, he thought, Cowley is in a very good mood, pleased with all the information he had collected. Soon we'll go back to Exeter, and tomorrow back to London, surely. So he just sat quietly and listened as the pair happily reminisced.

Eventually they decided to make a move. Brouard insisted that his driver would take them back to the airfield. They said their goodbyes, and climbed into the back of the big car. Brouard leant in the driver's window.

"Take a detour, George," he ordered. "Show them the Casino, and the Rosolen place."

George followed his orders, and drove them expertly round the town. It was all very interesting, but it meant that when they arrived back at the airfield it was later than they had intended.

Dave was standing by his craft, looking rather anxious. "We'd better get a move on, sir," he said, addressing Cowley. "The forecast isn't too good. The weather is deteriorating."

Indeed, as they looked about them, they realised this was true. The early morning had been bright and sunny, but now the sky was full of dark clouds, and a few drops of rain were starting to fall.

They climbed quickly into their places, and Dave swept them away.

Their pilot had been right about the weather. They were flying almost due north, and the nearer they got to the mainland, the darker the sky grew. The rain was heavier too, and a wind was getting up. At last the coastline of Devon came dimly into view. Above it the clouds were very dark, lit occasionally by brief flashes of lightning.

"This is getting rather nasty, gentlemen," said Dave, "I'm afraid we are running into one of Devon's freak storms. They can be very violent."

His tone worried the two listening men, as they exchanged looks.

"I haven't the fuel to turn back," continued Dave. "Fortunately, the storm is pretty high. The formation of the cliffs tends to push it upwards. Our best bet is to go in under it, and then veer sideways. Hold tight, gentlemen !."

Dave was doing his best, using all his skill and experience in a manoeuvre that had a chance of working.

There is a limit to how low helicopters can fly, except when landing or taking off, - something to do with the downdraft, and Dave was perilously close to that limit.

They had almost reached the coast now, and the storm over them was raging even more fiercely.

And then it happened !

Whether it was a bolt of lightning, the height, or an extra strong gust of wind, no-one would ever know. But the little craft bucked wildly, shuddered, and dropped like a stone !

It didn't have far to fall, but the impact as it hit the heaving waves was horrendous. It must have been noisy too, but the ferocity of the storm drowned that out. It disguised loud sounds of cracking and rending, as the damaged fuselage of the craft began to break up, battered by the wild waves and the howling wind.

Doyle, who had been momentarily stunned by hitting his head against the window frame, shook his head to clear it, and wished he hadn't. Quickly he released the safety belt, and turned to find out the state of the other occupants of the sinking craft.

Although the light was very poor, it was enough to show Doyle that there was nothing he could do for Dave. The awkward position of the man's head and neck, and the wide open staring eyes, told their own story. Doyle felt a passing twinge of regret for a young man who had done his best to save them.

But his immediate driving concern was for his boss. He clambered back out of his seat to reach him. Cowley was slumped to one side, held by the safety belt, and apparently out cold. Doyle reached a quick hand to his boss's neck, and was relieved to find a reasonably strong pulse. Quickly he reached for the button of the safety harness, and grabbed hold of the limp form to pull him towards the exit.

That was when he found out about his own problem, as a vicious pain shot through his left arm. But he persevered, dragging the inert form closer. His foot kicked open the disintegrating door section, and with a final heave, both he and Cowley fell out, and into the raging sea !

His last look as they had approached, had told him that they were very close to the coastline. So, forcing his injured arm to hang on to Cowley, he struck out for the shore. It was very heavy going, for the waves were wild, and the rain and wind together were ferocious.

Dave's words about the storm being high were now found to be incorrect.. It was all about them as he battled on.

Then all at once, he felt the weight he was dragging touch bottom. He was almost there. He let his feet drop, and was able to stagger the last few yards, to collapse exhausted on the shingle beach.

After a while, Doyle recovered enough to sit up and look about him. The poor light, and the driving rain made visibility far from clear, but he could just make out that they seemed to be on the shore of a semi-circular cove, bounded by very high cliffs on the right, gradually sloping lower to the left.

He swung his gaze back to the right, where he had just caught a glimpse of something. He brushed the rain from his eyes, as he tried to make out what it was. It looked like a small hut. His spirits lifted – there might be a little shelter to be had there from the wind and rain.

He struggled to his feet, and fought to lift the inert form beside him. He managed to get his shoulder under Cowley's arm, and clutching hold of him with his good arm, half-dragged, half-carried him towards his target.

He found it was indeed a little hut, set right against the cliff, but a very old dilapidated, long-abandoned one. Perhaps a fisherman had built it, partly of stone and partly of any odd bit of wood he could find. The door was hanging by one hinge, and all the glass had gone from the small window, but the roof still seemed to be reasonably intact.

He kicked the door open, and heaved his burden inside. The relief from the wind and the driving rain was wonderful !

The wind was still blowing in the broken window, of course, but because the hut was right against the cliff-face, it was much less ferocious.m He heaved Cowley into the driest corner, furthest from the window, lowered him down, and propped him into sitting position against the wall. He turned back to the door, and with a bit of a struggle, pushed it back into place, wedging it with a bit of wood.

Then, totally exhausted by his efforts, he went back to his boss, and lowered himself to sit beside him. Cautiously he ran his fingers along the arm that had let him down. He couldn't feel a broken bone, but the pain that it had caused him when he tried to use it, was suspicious. He leant his head back against the rough wall, and tried to relax, to regain some strength. There was nothing more he could do now, but wait.

He rested, watching as the already dim light gradually disappeared. Soon there was almost total darkness, lit occasionally by lightning flashes. The wind outside was still blowing furiously. Now and then, an extra fierce gust sent a flurry of rain in through the broken window, but it didn't reach their corner. Not that it would have made any difference anyway. They were both soaking wet as it was.

He had lost all track of time. Although the watch on his wrist had luminous hands, the glass had been broken, and it had stopped at about the time of the accident.

But it felt as if a couple of hours had passed, when he heard a groan, as the figure beside him stirred. He roused himself, and put a hand on his boss's arm.

"Sir ?," he said, and was relieved when a voice answered.

"Doyle ?," it said feebly, "Is that you ?"

"Yes," replied Doyle. At least the words, if rather weak, were rational.

"What happened ?," asked Cowley.

"The helicopter, sir," said Doyle. "It crashed in the storm – came down in the sea."

"Where are we ?," questioned Cowley, who, of course, had woken to find himself in total darkness.

"In a little old fisherman's hut," explained Doyle. "It's a wreck, but it got us out of the storm."

Cowley attempted to move, and let out another groan."My leg," he said. "My leg's injured."

And my arm, thought Doyle, but there's nothing I can do about either.

"I can't move. I won't be able to walk," declared Cowley. "You'll have to get help."

"The storm's still raging," said Doyle, "and I can't do anything in the dark – I'd be lost in minutes. But I'll go as soon as it's light,"

Memory was returning to Cowley as he became more aware of their situation, and heard the storm still raging outside.

"The pilot ?," he queried.

"Dead, I'm sorry to say," replied Doyle. "He tried his best to save us."

"My brief-case ?" questioned Cowley. "Lost I suppose. All that information gone !."

That's a bit callous, thought Doyle. What's paperwork worth as compared to a life ?.

"We'll just have to sit it out till the morning," he said, and both relapsed into silence.

They slept fitfully during the long night. Neither was very comfortable. Both had injuries and both were wet and cold. Doyle wasn't worried for himself – he'd endured being wet and cold often. But Cowley, although he might have coped with difficult conditions in his wide and varied experience, was no longer a young man, and had retired from harsh living. What if he got pneumonia ?

Some time during the long night, the storm had finally blown itself out

When Doyle woke up, he wondered for a moment what was different, until he suddenly realised that he could no longer hear the howling wind, and the battering of torrential rain on the roof.

He turned his eyes in the direction of the window. A faint light was beginning to show, - just a square of grey against the black. This changed rapidly as the sun came up. Before long he was able to see Cowley more clearly. He seemed to be still asleep. But even as he looked, the man began to stir, and opened his eyes.

"It's morning, sir," said Doyle, rather unnecessarily, for his boss could now see that for himself.

"The storm has gone," said Cowley, as he too noticed the absence of last night's noise.

Doyle climbed to his feet. He felt stiff and cramped, but knew that this would soon go as he got moving again. He moved to the window and peered out. His gaze confirmed what he had glimpsed the evening before – the cove with its shingle beach and surrounding cliffs. He pulled the wedging stick away from the door, heaved it open, and stepped out. The morning was fresh and cool, but dry. He looked carefully about him, and then returned to report to Cowley.

"The cliffs are very high and sheer this end," he said, "but they slope away. They are lower at the far end of the beach, and it looks as if there might be a path there."

Cowley had pushed himself more upright, and was cautiously feeling his injured leg. "I don't think I can walk on this, even with help," he said. "You'll have to leave me, and go for assistance."

Doyle considered. If he'd had the use of both arms, it might have been different, but as it was this was the best option.

"Right," he said. "But it may take me some time. I don't know how far I'll have to go."

"I'm not going anywhere," replied his boss grimly.

Doyle set out across the beach, trudging through the shingle. His eyes were on the signs of a path at the far side, where the cliffs were lower, and had changed into rocky slopes. He was half-way across, when he was startled by a loud shout. He turned his gaze upward to the edge of the cliffs, and was surprised, and very pleased, to see, out-lined against the sky, the figures of several men.

One waved, and he waved back, very relieved. He was going to find help much quicker than he had hoped. The men were moving to the left, to the lower end of the cliffs, and already two were descending the path. He pushed on to meet them. They met at the bottom of the path.

"Mr. Doyle ?," queried one.

"Yes, how did you know ?," asked Doyle in surprise.

"We were alerted by Joe at the airfield," he replied, "when Dave's helicopter didn't return. He gave us a rough idea of where it was before he lost contact, so we had an idea of where to start our search." Now that they were close, he could see that they were wearing uniforms with the coastguard insignia.

Then he noticed that Doyle was cradling one arm with the other. "Are you injured, sir ?," he asked anxiously.

"It's just my arm," replied Doyle, as he turned to point back towards the little hut, huddled against the cliff-face. "Mr. Cowley's in there. I think he's got a broken leg."

The coastguard turned, and made a special signal to one of the men at the top of the cliff, who immediately waved back in acknowledgement, and then turned and disappeared out of sight.

Doyle made as if to lead the way back, but the coastguard stopped him.

"I'll go," he said, "you let Bill here help you up to our truck. There's hot coffee there. I bet you could do with that. The others are bringing a stretcher down. We'll look after him."

After that things moved quite quickly. Doyle was escorted up to the cliff-top, where he was led to the parked truck. A blanket, a temporary sling, and a mug of hot coffee quickly made him feel more comfortable.

As they had come up, they had been passed by two men carrying a stretcher and a large first-aid bag, so he knew he could stop worrying about his boss. He was going to get the help he needed.

Then came the question he had been dreading.

"What about Dave ?," asked one of the men.

"Killed when we crashed," replied Doyle, with real regret in his voice. "He tried his best to save us, but we came down in the sea, a few yards out."

"He was a good man," said one of the men. "He'll be greatly missed."

"We're based at Exmouth," volunteered another, "So we knew him quite well."

"I'd have tried to save him if I could," said Doyle, "but I could see it would have been useless." The men nodded in understanding.

It seemed to Doyle a long time before Cowley was brought up to the cliff-top.

But the trained men had been dealing with the broken leg, and making sure their patient was secure and as comfortable as possible before making the difficult ascent. Two others had gone down to help, putting their training into action.

"Here it comes," said one of the men sitting beside Doyle. He pointed inland. Doyle followed where he was pointing, and saw an ambulance pulling to a halt on the road 50 yards away. He marvelled at the efficiency of these well-trained men. One of them must have made the call as soon as they had spotted him.

"You can walk that far, can't you ?" asked the leader of the group.

"Yes, of course," replied Doyle.

Nevertheless, he was escorted, as they followed those bearing the stretcher in that direction. They handed Cowley over to the waiting ambulance men, and stood back. Their job was done.

Realising that they were now in different hands, Doyle expressed his very grateful thanks to the coastguard team. They wished him well, and watched as the ambulance moved off, carrying Doyle and Cowley to Exeter Hospital. The trip to the hospital was not a very long one. Both men were silent, Cowley partly sedated by the painkillers he'd been given, and Doyle because he was thinking hard about what to do next.

His first priority must be to let Headquarters know what had happened.

He un-zipped his jacket, and felt for his I.D. card. When he pulled it out, he was relieved to see that although it had some water damage, it was still perfectly legible. Hopefully, Cowley's might be, as well.

They arrived at the hospital, where the stretcher was swiftly un-loaded to a trolley and wheeled away.

Doyle immediately demanded to speak to someone in charge. He insisted that it was important. He had to talk to someone in authority.

He was eventually conducted to the office of the head consultant. To his great relief, he found that he was a mature man, with a very calm manner. He listened intently as Doyle produced his identification, and explained exactly who they were. He quickly acceded to Doyle's request to put an urgent phone call through to London. He showed him how to access an outside line, and then left him in privacy, as he went to see personally to the welfare of his other special patient.

Doyle called the special numbers he knew, to put him through to C.I.5 's headquarters. A man he knew to be very reliable was manning the switchboard. So he told him as succinctly as possible exactly what had happened, and what the current situation was, confident that the information would be quickly passed to the proper people.

He had just finished when there was a tap at the door. He opened it to find a nurse there. "Mr. Doyle," she said. "Mr. Bennett said you had an injured arm. If you come with me we will get it checked."

She led him to a small room, where there was a bed. On it was a pile of clothes. The little nurse smiled shyly at him, as she pointed to them. "They may not fit you very well," she suggested, as she left, "but they'll be better than your own, I think."

And indeed they were, for the immersion in the sea, and the slow drying had left his jeans stiff and uncomfortable. He changed, choosing the most suitable items, and tucking his own into the carrier bag she had provided. They would do until he could get back to the hotel for his own stuff.

He had been told that the doctor would come to him there to look at his arm, as soon as he was free.

He suddenly felt rather tired. He'd done what he could, but for now everything was out of his hands. He piled the pillows up against the bed-head, and relaxed on the bed. He had no idea of the time, but reckoned it must now be late morning.

He must have dozed off, for he was suddenly startled awake by the sound of the door opening. The consultant, Mr. Bennett came in.

"How are you, Mr. Doyle ?," he enquired. "I'm sorry you've been kept waiting so long, but we've had rather a difficult time with Mr. Cowley. His leg has a nasty break; he has a couple of cracked ribs, and a slight head injury, too."

Doyle looked concerned, so the doctor hastened to re-assure him. "But he's going to be all right," he said. "It'll just take a little a while. So now let's look at you."

He got Doyle to lie flat, and gave him a quick check over, finding no other problems, bar a few bruises. Then he gave his full attention to the painful arm, feeling it very gently and carefully.

"I can't feel a break," he said at last, "but I'm not satisfied about it. The osteopath comes in this afternoon. I'll get him to have a look at it – we may need an X-ray."

He smiled at Doyle. He really was a nice man, very calming. "Meanwhile, I suggest you rest here. Lunch is just being served. I bet you could do with that, couldn't you ?."

"I need to speak to my boss," said Doyle.

"Yes, but not yet," replied the doctor. "He's heavily sedated at the moment."

Doyle had to be content with that for the time being. Very shortly, lunch was brought to him, and he thoroughly enjoyed it. Then he rested as suggested and waited for the osteopath, who turned out to be a very earnest young man, fairly recently qualified. He carefully felt, and gently manipulated the injured arm, taking his time over it most conscientiously.

At last he turned to his patient with a concerned look. "Mr. Doyle," he said, "I'm not completely happy about this. I can't feel an actual break, but it shouldn't be this painful. I think we'd better have an X-ray done."

"Have I time to go and see how my boss is ?," asked Doyle.

"Yes," replied the young man. "It may take me a while to arrange for they are very busy. But I know where to find you when they are ready."

He gave Doyle directions to the room where Cowley was, and went off. Doyle soon found the right door, tapped on it, and was met by a nurse.

"I'd like a word with Mr. Cowley," he said politely.

"Of course," she replied, for she knew who he was. "But I don't think you'll get much response. He been sedated, and he's also got a slight chill which we're dealing with. You may find he's a bit delirious."

Doyle went into the semi-darkened room and approached the bed. Cowley was awake, but looked a little flushed and agitated, moving his head restlessly. But he did recognize his visitor.

"Doyle," he said. "This is a fine mess, isn't it ? Here I am stuck in bed with two bad legs, and all the work I've done lost. I need to put down what I can remember of it, and so must you. We must recover it."

He was struggling to sit up. Doyle didn't know what to do. His boss seemed to have only one thing on his mind, and he was almost incoherent about it. He tried to find words to attempt to calm him, but with little success.

The nurse, who had been hovering, came forward and took charge, soothing her patient gently. She turned to Doyle. "I think you'd better go," she said. "He'll be better tomorrow when the medication kicks in."

Doyle left, feeling rather frustrated. Cowley was obsessed by the loss of the paperwork. He hadn't had a chance to tell him that he'd contacted London, or to discuss possible arrangements.

As he walked along the corridor, he met the young osteopath, who'd come looking for him. "We're ready for you now, sir," he said, and conducted Doyle to the X-ray department. They did their work efficiently, taking pictures from different angles, and passing the results to the senior man. Doyle sat for a while, waiting for his verdict. At last he was beckoned into the man's office.

"Well, Mr. Doyle," he said. "We've found two rather nasty cracks in the ulna. As the least knock would probably cause a break, we're going to treat it as a broken arm."

The decision made, things moved quickly after that, and soon Doyle found himself with a plaster cast, and a large sling. But the pain was very much lessened.

"You're free to go," said the doctor. "Have you somewhere to stay ?."

"Yes," replied Doyle, "A hotel room."

"Fine," said the man. "You're all right to return there, but take things easy for a few days, and use painkillers if you need to."

Doyle collected the bag with his clothes and started to make his way towards the hospital entrance. He'd need to get a taxi, he was thinking, to take him back to the hotel.

He swung round a corner, and almost bumped into a figure he instantly recognised.

"Bodie !," he exclaimed. "What are you doing here ?"

"Come to see what you've been up to," replied Bodie cheerfully.

He surveyed the figure before him. Baggy brown trousers and an overlarge sweat-shirt hung loosely on his mate's wiry frame. "What are you wearing ?," he exclaimed.

"Short-term loan," explained Doyle. My own got a bit wet. I can change when I get back to the hotel."

"Where we're going next," said Bodie. "Murphy's with me. He's down at reception, trying to track you down."

Doyle was beginning to feel better by the minute. His partner back with him, and their best friend too. Between them everything would get sorted out.

"You go and find Murph," said Bodie. "I'm just going to see Cowley, or someone to ask about him, and then we'll all go to the hotel. We've got to fix somewhere to stay tonight."

Bodie followed the directions he'd been given, and soon found Cowley's room. He was met by the nurse, who had been alerted and was expecting him.

Can I see him ?," asked Bodie.

"You can have a few moments," replied the nurse, "but I don't think you'll get much sense from him. He is improving, but he's not quite 'with it' yet."

She showed Bodie in. He was a bit taken aback as he saw that his boss was not at all his usual self. He seemed half-asleep, and was muttering agitatedly.

"My brief-case," he was complaining. "All that information. Why didn't Doyle save it ?"

I expect he had enough to do saving you, thought Bodie. He tried to talk to the agitated man, but he didn't seem to be at all aware of him. He turned back to the nurse with a questioning look.

"Don't worry," she said re-assuringly. "This will pass soon. The medication is working. He'll be more himself in a day or so"

Bodie left. He was worrying now. He'd never seen his boss like that before. He was usually so alert and rational. He carried on down to the entrance where Doyle and Murphy were waiting.

"How was he ?," asked Murphy anxiously.

"He was asleep," lied Bodie. No need to worry the others un-necessarily, he thought, if he'll be better tomorrow.

They drove to the hotel, and spoke to the landlady regarding their need of accommodation. She was concerned, for they were fully booked at the moment, but Bodie quickly sorted it out. Murphy could have Cowley's room, as he wouldn't be back that night, and he'd share with Doyle.

Doyle went up to his room and quickly changed into something he felt better in, packing up the borrowed clothes to be returned. They were in time for the evening meal, and sat down together to enjoy it.

Murphy explained how they had decided, as soon as they heard the news, to come straight down, to see what they could do. He made Doyle laugh as he told him of some of the hair-raising moments he had had, as Bodie frequently exceeded the speed limit on some very unsuitable roads. "I shut my eyes, a dozen times," he said.

They passed a pleasant evening just talking. Doyle brought them up to date on all he and Cowley had been doing. He told them how the search for the elusive 'Mr Petrie ' had resulted in them finding Ted Dawson. He rather shamefacedly explained how they had lost him again. He told of his great surprise at Cowley's sudden decision to go to Guernsey. He described the ferocity of the storm, and the pilot's valiant efforts to get them to safety. He played down his own struggle to save his boss, but his friends could read between the lines about that.

Telling it all, relieved Doyle's tension somewhat, but what he had to say was beginning to trouble Bodie. He was getting concerned about what seemed to him to be Cowley's rather irrational last, they parted company, and retired to their rooms.

As Doyle walked in to theirs, with Bodie close behind him, he let out a sigh."I wish I could have a bath," he said. "Wash the salt out of my hair."

"What's stopping you ?," asked Bodie, and Doyle indicated his plastered arm.

Bodie tapped his nose knowingly, and shot out of the room. He was back in a few moments with a long narrow box. He helped Doyle to shed his top, and then, opening the box he'd cadged from a helpful cook, proceeded to wrap the arm in cling-film, making sure it was particularly secure at both ends of the plaster.

"Now if I help you, I reckon we can keep that dry," he said triumphantly.

Doyle looked at his friend, somewhat amazed. "You're not just a pretty face, are you ?," he said, and Bodie grinned.

It worked very well, and soon they were both comfortably ensconced in the big double bed. Bodie reached up and switched off the bed-lamp. He quite expected his friend to be asleep in minutes. Doyle was very good at relaxing and could sleep anywhere.

But half an hour later, Doyle was still stirring restlessly. Bodie sat up, put the light back on and turned to his mate.

"What's the matter, Ray ?," he asked. "Is your arm hurting ?."

Doyle shaded his eyes with his hand, but couldn't hide his worried expression. "No, it's not that," he said. "It's Cowley – he's obsessed. He keeps on about his brief-case and all the missing papers."

"Yes, I know," admitted Bodie, and told him how he had found their boss muttering about it.

"It's not as if it's even work we should have been doing," went on Doyle. "It could all have been found by the tax-fraud people."

"And can be again," said Bodie. "They are sure to be onto it, when you can tell them what to look for."

"Why can't Cowley see that ?," queried Doyle. "The way he's carrying on, it might have been better if I'd saved the brief-case, and let him drown !"

Bodie knew his mate well, and understood that these fiery words were only spoken in anger, and not meant literally.

"He's not well," said Bodie, "Perhaps when he's better, he'll see more sense. But you shouldn't let it upset you. You did what you had to do, and did it pretty well too, I'd say, from what I've heard of conditions in that storm."

"It was a bit of a struggle," admitted Doyle.

"So relax and get some sleep," ordered Bodie. "You've earned it, mate."

Bodie's encouraging words had the desired effect. Doyle eased over, settled himself comfortably, and was fast asleep in moments.

It took Bodie a little longer, as he pondered over the situation. It was clear to him that Cowley had made a serious error of judgement in pursuing Zoolner so assiduously himself. Would he come to his senses and realise this ?

The trio met over breakfast, and talked over their current situation. Murphy started things off. "It's clear," he said, "that there's no point in all of us staying here doing nothing,"

"I agree," said Bodie. "So my plan is to return to London as soon as we possibly can. And Ray, here, is fit to travel with us."

"Yes, please," put id Doyle eagerly.

"But," continued Bodie, "the big problem is the boss. I'm sure the doctor will say he's not fit to be moved for some days yet."

"What do you suggest we do ?," asked Murphy.

"First we'll put all his things together and take them in to the hospital. He'll need some of his stuff, if they start getting him up," said Bodie

"I packed most of it last night," said Murphy.

"Good," said Bodie. "I suggest I take it in this morning. I'll talk to the doctor, and see what he suggests."

"What shall we do ?," asked Doyle, quite content now to let the others take charge.

"Get your own stuff packed up," suggested Bodie, "and then enquire where the nearest petrol station is. I'll be back as soon as I can, and if it's all O.K., we'll settle up and go."

He drove to the hospital, parked the car, and carried in Cowley's bag. He asked to see , and was shown into his office.

You'll be pleased to hear," said the doctor, "that Mr. Cowley had a good night. He's much better this morning."

"But not fit to travel ?," queried Bodie.

"Oh, no, not yet," replied the doctor. "He's going to need hospital care for some time."

Bodie was rather taken aback. He'd thought maybe a few days, but the doctor was talking as if it might be weeks.

"Is that a problem ?," asked the doctor, noting Bodie's expression.

"Well, yes it is," replied Doyle. "You know who he is. We really need him back in London."

"Perhaps a transfer could be arranged," suggested the doctor. "Which hospital would C.I.5 normally use.?"

Dr. Bennett was an efficient, sensible man. On Bodie's information, he got in contact with St. Richard's in London, and had a long discussion with the main consultant there. At last, he turned to Bodie.

"It's all arranged," he said, "I'll call St. Richard's again when I think that Mr. Cowley is fit to be moved, in a few days maybe, and then we'll finalize plans for a hospital car to come for him."

Bodie thanked him for all his efforts. "Can I see him now ?," he asked. "I can tell him what has been arranged."

A few moments later, Bodie was shown into Cowley's room, and found him propped up on pillows, looking so much better. The feverishness had gone, and he seemed much more his normal alert self.

"How are you, sir ?," asked Bodie, approaching to sit by the bed.

"Recovering," replied Cowley, "and very curious to know how you come to be here."

Bodie felt better. Cowley seemed to be himself again. "Doyle called Headquarters," he said, "to report the accident. Murphy and I came straight down to see what we could do."

"And what have you done ?," asked Cowley.

"Well, first," said Bodie, "We've packed your bag and brought it in for you." Cowley watched as Bodie deposited the bag by the cupboard.

"I've spoken with , the consultant," went on Bodie. "He says you're not fit to travel yet, but in a few days you will be, and he'll arrange with those at St. Richard's to have a hospital car fetch you." Cowley nodded as if in approval of this plan.

"As there's nothing else we can do," continued Bodie, "we'll be back off to London this afternoon. Doyle's fit to travel, so we'll take him."

"No," said Cowley firmly.

Bodie was taken aback, and even more so as Cowley continued.

"I want him here, to help me write up notes about what we discovered. All that paperwork was lost, you know."

Bodie was shaken. His boss hadn't lost his obsession after all !

All the worrying that Bodie had been doing rose to the surface, and his temper flared.

"No way," he exclaimed. "Doyle's done enough, and collected a broken arm for his pains. He needs a rest. He's coming with us !."

Cowley looked angry now, but Bodie rushed on.

"This isn't work C.I.5 should be doing. It should have been handed over to the tax people ages ago. You shouldn't be in the field at all, sir. You're needed in the centre of things in London, planning, and organizing the rest of us. The trip to Exeter was reasonable, especially as Doyle found Dawson, but dashing off to Guernsey was madness, and dangerous. We could have lost you both ! And as regards that, Doyle risked his life to save yours, and I bet you haven't thanked him yet."

With that, he jumped to his feet, and stormed out, totally ignoring Cowley's shout of "Bodie !"

Bodie strode down the corridor, mad with himself for having lost his temper with a sick man.

What had he done ? Chucked his job away, in all probability !

By the time he reached the entrance, he had calmed down. He drove back to the hotel where Murphy and Doyle were waiting. Reflecting, on the way there, he had decided not to tell them what he had done.

"I saw the boss, - he's much better," he told them cheerfully. "It's all been arranged, that he'll be fetched back to London as soon as the doctor thinks he's fit to travel."

"So it's all right for us to go now ?," asked Doyle, with a very hopeful look.

"Of course," lied Bodie.

"I've settled up for the rooms," said Murphy. "Our bags are ready to go in the boot, and there's a petrol station just two streets away."

"Right," said Bodie. "Off we go then."

Cowley struggled to sit up in the bed, his anger giving him strength. How had Bodie dared to talk to him like that ? He could not take such insubordination ! And he had stormed off before he could say a word, ignoring his shout. No doubt he would soon be half-way to London.

But then he remembered something the man had said. That soon he, Cowley would be moved back to St. Richard's. He would have to wait for that. But once he got back to London, he would throw the book at him.

His anger gradually subsided as the hospital routine took over. First there was the nurse taking his temperature and blood-pressure. Then an orderly, helping him to wash, and seeing to his comfort, followed by doctor's rounds and checks on the progress of his injuries. With all this, the morning passed quickly, and then it was lunchtime.

After lunch the nurses tried to persuade their patients to have a spell of rest, perhaps even sleep. Cowley's nurse plumped up his pillows, and made him comfortable. Relaxed, he began to think.

Ever since he had woken this morning to find his mind much clearer, he had been trying to remember all that had happened. He remembered the train trip to Exeter, the small hotel, and their discoveries at the bank. He recalled their attempt to track down Mr. Petrie, and the lucky chance that Doyle had recognised Dawson.

He quite clearly remembered the helicopter flight to Guernsey, and his re-union with an old acquaintance, John Brouard. He had been pleased with all they had found there about the 'Rosolen' account. He recalled how the flight back had led them into threatening weather.

At this point there came a complete blank !

He struggled to concentrate, and gradually a little more came back. He had woken in complete darkness, wet and cold and in considerable pain. Then the picture in his mind began to clear.

Doyle had been there beside him, and had told him how the helicopter had crashed, and that they were now sheltering in the old hut till the storm eased. After that the memories were a little vague, of men with a stretcher, an ambulance trip, and hospital care from doctors and nurses.

So Bodie had been telling him the truth !. It seemed that Doyle had saved him from the crash, and dragged them both ashore.

So what of the other things Bodie had shouted at him. Were they true too ?

Over the next couple of days, as he steadily improved, he thought very hard over all that Bodie had said, and began to realise what he had done. He had allowed his grief over his friend David's, death, after years of suffering, and his intense desire to get Zoolner somehow, to cloud his judgement.

Because of that, he and Doyle had nearly died. He thought long about what that would have meant to the future of C.I.5. Bodie was right, he finally admitted to himself. His place was at the hub of things, planning, organizing and directing others. His place was not out in the field risking danger.

He would not make that mistake again !

A few days later he made the long trip back to London, and was ensconced in a small private room at St. Richards. He sent at once for his secretary. She quickly brought him up to date on all the information that had come in during his absence. He was soon making plans and issuing orders again. One of the first calls she made for him was to the Tax Office.

Doyle's arm was making good progress, according to their own doctor. As usual, when he was incapacitated, he was doing useful work in Records.

Bodie and Murphy, and all the other operatives, were now very busy, carrying out the streams of orders, relayed to them from the room at 's.

One evening, as Bodie was driving Doyle home, his mate suddenly caught him out with a sudden question.

"Have you been to see the old man ?," he asked.

"No," replied Bodie fiercely, "And I'm staying well away."

"Why ?," demanded Doyle. He'd noticed how tense and edgy his partner had been since they'd got back.

It was too much for Bodie. He'd spent days worrying, awaiting a summons from Cowley, expecting to be called to task, and probably dismissed. In a torrent of words, he poured out all he had said to Cowley. His mate listened silently. At last, he ventured a comment.

"Wow," he said, "You really told him, didn't you ?."

Bodie nodded glumly.

But the following day, it was Doyle who received the summons from Cowley. With some trepidation, he knocked and entered Cowley's room. His boss was sitting out in his chair, a pair of crutches parked near him, and the bed-table before him stacked with papers and files.

"How are you, sir ?," asked Doyle politely.

"Getting better," replied Cowley. "Not as fast as I would like, mind " He sounded reasonably affable, but Doyle was too wound up to realise this.

"Sir," he blurted out, "I know now what Bodie said to you, and I agree with it all. If you're going to fire him, I'm going too !."

Cowley gave a steady look at the defiant man before him. "How is your arm, Doyle ?," he asked.

"Doing well, sir," replied Doyle, greatly surprised by the lack of response to his outburst.

"Good," said Cowley, "Then you could do some work for me in Records. I'd like some information on these five men." He handed Doyle a paper with a list of names.

Rather confused, Doyle persisted. "About Bodie, sir,…..", he began, but Cowley interrupted him with an up-raised hand.

"I'll deal with that when I'm ready," he said. "Please get on with the task I've given you."

Thus dismissed, Doyle left, disconsolately, not knowing what to think.

Watching him go, Cowley smiled to himself. What a good partnership Bodie and Doyle had become, each of them always ready to spring to the other's defence.

He wasn't going to lose them. He needed them, - they were his best team.

But it wouldn't do either of them any harm to sweat it out for a bit.


End file.
